


Click

by Sevargs



Category: Saiyuki
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-10
Updated: 2014-06-10
Packaged: 2018-02-04 03:22:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1764003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sevargs/pseuds/Sevargs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite a wash of gold and cold violet, he was seeing her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Click

The smoke billowed up between them in haze—hanging in the room like a mournful cloud. It was a foul, nose curling smell to the nonsmoker; but he supposed it was comfort to those like Gojyo, who drank the smoldering air into his lungs like it was necessary for life—or more like a distraction for the man in the chair across from him. The deep inhales, followed by slow exhales, told the man everything he needed to know. He was contemplating—the man across from him was. The contemplation wouldn't have been such a terrifying thing, if it hadn't been for the soft clicks he heard from a cylinder latch being released and then pressed back into place in a bored, rhythmic manner.

He knew that the only reason he was sitting in this room at the moment wasn't because he was asked to or even given permission, but rather had a personal need. The hollow blond sitting pressed against the rain struck window was undeniably sloshed and he wouldn't just leave it at that. Not after the last time, when he'd listened to the quiet thoughts slip from chapped lips like a depraved mantra.

The group redhead had once said that he was the scariest among the group for various reasons—largely involving his frightening passive aggressiveness—but to Hakkai, the most frightening thing was how easily it was to forget that their Holy leader was human. They were all broken people who had learned to grip reality like the hilt of a sturdy blade; but sometimes a gun was brought to the knife fight and blood spilled from a fresh wound.

In truth, he was there for the same reason he didn't want to be there. He was inhaling the secondhand smoke and trying to feign the usual smile that wouldn't come. There was only so much ease he could place in his posture when the one voted most likely to fight his way out of hell in a firestorm, had a gun in hand—leaning an elbow on a knee—and drawing the muzzle back on his tilted wrist until it was pointing at himself.

Despite a wash of gold and cold violet, he was seeing her.

Maybe that's why he invaded the privacy of the man's desire to be alone. Maybe that was why he was sitting close enough to reach out and place a finger behind the trigger and stop it—if he was quick enough, which he felt he probably wasn't. The thumping of his heart had him on edge and perhaps the priest knew that. Another heavy drawl and a voice cracked across the silence of the room.

"I wonder…whose hell I'd go to," it came through the smoke, almost drowned by the pattering rain on chilled glass.

He said nothing, because his words had to be chosen carefully. Of all of his skills, he used to think he was best a mediation; but mediation became an entirely different animal when it was involved in protecting one from himself. He, after all, was a jack of all trades and master of none. He hadn't the skills required to wrench this person from whatever snuck up and ate at him until a bullet seemed like a fair trade for silence. He could only listen and hope there could be an opportunity to slip the necessary syllables in.

It might have been because he'd seen this before and he failed to conjure the words—he failed to be quick enough. Despite his abilities and his strength, he wasn't all together himself. He couldn't watch her kill herself again, as he was seeing in another person who he'd accidentally come to care for as family.

"You can spend a dozen years fighting to live to see the next day, and destroy it in less than a second," the voice trembled out in a barely registered slur—wavering more from the weary lungs that should be choking at the volume of smoke. Another click and Hakkai shifted.

He was getting antsy and he was grateful that the other two had gone to bed already. He couldn't deal with this if he wasn't alone with him. "You destroy more than just you, in doing so," he offered, licking his dry lips and drawing for air to fill nearly paralyzed lungs. The rain was bad tonight—he felt the heaviness sinking in himself—but it must have been worse than usual if this was spiraling down.

"I'm not who I was back then," he spoke as if Hakkai's words hadn't been heard. And he suspected they weren't at all. The mixture of his sour mood and alcohol had him completely blocked off to others. Only the unofficially appointed group medic seemed to have any chance to force his way in on this. He had been the only person the Sanzo priest had openly consulted before and he was the only one he'd hold an unfired round in front of.

He was less likely to do it front of Hakkai, and they both knew it. If it was going to happen, they might never actually find him, but that didn't make it any less troubling. It didn't make Hakkai's fingers tap any less anxiously and it didn't lessen the near suffocation the man who had been granted his second chance by the person carrying the burden of the ultimate fight or flight.

"Who are you then?" He asked, leaning closer until his arms were supporting some of his weight. He could barely keep himself steady. She had escaped—unable to deal with the horrors of her misfortunes and he knew…he knew that the horrors his friend before him had faced were enough to drive weaker men insane. He just didn't want to think an enchanting light could be tainted so much that it would be snuffed out like the end of the man's cigarette as he finished it.

He, who had made him move on with his life and work around what had become of him, had been fighting himself all along and it seemed no one noticed. Ironic, if he had to say. In so many ways, their terrible monk was every bit as priestly as he should be. He was just harsh and forthcoming, but he was right and lent strength he lacked on nights when the rain pooled up to his neck and threatened to overtake him.

"Someone who thinks too much," he clarified and the gun clicked again. It was making the witness feel ill, because that click was stronger and he could hear the scraping movements of the chamber rolling, lining the spot to fire.

Please don't do this, he pleaded silently. He didn't want to cry over another lost fight. He didn't want to cry ever again for a reason like this. If that man needed escape, then he'd rather the blond just let him do it. Snapping a tender human neck would be easier than watching the finger pull the trigger. It would be easier than the words piling up in the back of his throat and slowly building until he couldn't spill a single one. Composure was hard to maintain when it felt like bullets were being unloaded in him for every second he waited.

The finger pulled the trigger tighter, making the weapon suddenly gleam maliciously against the dim light. Deep amethyst eyes stayed locked with the mismatched pair of real and fake. The stare was intense enough to make Hakkai understand why the aura around him was perplexing—why it was poetic justice that he would inherit the good and evil. Some thought he was scary, but the most terrifying thing to him was the sheer immensity of will from a single damaged human. He could embed the bullet in a second and he wasn't afraid to, he wasn't opposed at all. He was disconnected, but thoughtful. Where his benefits lied were not in a single bullet, but a flurry of them and that had kept him moving. His pride had pushed him to live. Perhaps that was why he was different than before—when this was probably more on par with fleeing, instead of simply closing the book on where he'd no longer be able to pull benefit from the haphazardly scrawled passages.

"Don't," Hakkai slipped quietly. He couldn't bear to witness it and he couldn't bear to lose the enigmatic light that kept them together.

Click

His breath hitched and he almost exhaled a muffled scream. The movement was strong with conviction and the sound was more deafening than hearing it fired directly by his ear. The metal piece hit the table with a dull thunk and he panted. His thoughts scattered and he scrambled to reorganize them as he hear a low voice confirm that he could breathe again—even if the first few breaths felt like sharp needles being inhaled.

Despite his racing heart and sudden wish for the ability to get drunk himself, he laughed. Not heartily, but low, hiccuping chuckles that spelled his distress. He hadn't been there to save Genjo Sanzo's life, but he was there to witness fate and what held the bullet and the realization of his own feelings.

"I forgot to load it," the monk said, turning his head up and against the window to listen to the drops against glass. "Maybe tomorrow."

He would be there to empty the chamber tomorrow.


End file.
